You are browsing the archive for 2011 April.

It’s three p.m. on a Thursday in St. Stephen’s Green and it’s sunny – so ridiculously sunny for Dublin that everyone’s out and everyone’s in shirtsleeves and everyone’s on the grass and someone, some bold someone, is smoking pot; it floats on by in a sour whiff and Em and I remark on the absolute cheek. None for us, though – dammit – and there are tulips bursting all over the green – red and purple and yellow – and even if we felt like it, it’s too lovely out to move. No swans out, but loads of seagulls and pigeons. Dunnes shopping bags and a sack half-full of a traditional steak Hanley’s cornish pasty; comfort on my tongue. Em reads over her term paper. The sun shines right on my face – here. In Dublin. I still can’t believe it. I roll over on the grass. I have a little nap.

I need to just give up – I’ll never be a writer. what ever made me think I could be one? HOW CAN YOU BE A WRITER IF YOU’RE NOT CREATIVE?????? HOW CAN YOU BE A WRITER IF YOU NEVER WRITE EXCEPT FOR BULLSHIT PARAGRAPHS THAT MEAN NOTHING??? HOW CAN YOU BE A WRITER IF WHAT YOU DO WRITE IS TOTAL AND COMPLETE SHIT????? HOW CAN YOU BE A WRITER IF YOU’RE AFRAID TO WRITE – SURE THAT WHATEVER YOU SAY WILL BE RIDICULED, REJECTED, HATED, and TERRIBLE?

I believed every word of this paragraph. Every. Freaking. Word.

And today, April 19 2011, I graduated from Trinity College Dublin with an M. Phil in Creative Writing.

Take that, my 26 year-old self.

I may never be as brilliant as my fellow Trinity alums. But damned if I’m not going to try.

On the platform of the Q train, heading out to Queens. A crush of people; all of us staring down the train tracks. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I think that girl pregnant. I turn to my left and it’s a middle-aged woman; short sandy-colored hair and a soft Eastern European accent. Smiling at me, speaking in a conspiratorial hush. Look. That girl over there in white sweatshirt. But she very little. She maybe thirteen.

I can’t really see the girl with the white sweatshirt – too many people on the platform, but I see flashes of the shirt, flashes of a long brown ponytail; the back of her body. She is little. I can’t see the front of her; her stomach or her face. She hugs an adult woman. They both stare down the train tracks.

It very sad, says the woman next to me. But she pregnant. I think that her mother.

Back in New York now; a lengthy layover between the wedding madness in Guatemala and my graduation from Trinity in Dublin. A layover because both far-flung events took space in a short time frame and the trip to Guatemala is, in essence, my trip to the West for the year so why not make the most of it? It’s New York in the early throes of spring time; pink blossoms sprouting up all over the city in intermittent bursts. Gorgeous day outside, the old familiar smells and sounds. But I find myself pensive between lunch and dinner dates; crankier than perhaps I could be. And that’s because, for as much as I love this city, the longer I stay away, the more I come to hate being back home sometimes. And I love this city. And I love my friends. But sometimes… well….

This here is a selection from my journal – sketched while I was sitting across from the sea, at a bar, watching the waves and feeling, for some reason, inspired to write a haiku (what else…). That’s it on the right – nonsensical, I’m sure. Supposed to say: 春のうみ/久しぶりので/ピカピカよ which is supposed to mean The sea in springtime/it’s been a long time therefore/you’re really sparkly but probably doesn’t. And then I drew stuff to take away from the fact that I can’t speak or write Japanese; a motorino, the lungomare, a pigeon. On the opposite page, a scrap of an idea for a screenplay and then, underneath, One of these days I’ve got to get a picture of Katarina on her motorino.

So, a few days later, I did:

There she is! Say ciao, Katarina. Katarina on her motorino, meeting me at the train station to head to Rome. Tomorrow morning, she’s coming to my place, motorino and all, and we’re driving to Rome again – to the airport so I can head back to the Americas – and then back to Dublin – for a few weeks to attend my cousin’s wedding and graduate from Trinity. Hooray! And you’re all invited. Especially to carry my suitcases. Please. Please carry my suitcases. There is no fresh hell like a 45kg weakling trying to carry a 45kg bag.